No mother wants their child to fear the future, but that’s exactly what happened with Donna* of Illinois and her seven-year-old biracial son Tyson.

Tyson came up to his mother earlier this year in March and asked her, “Who are you going to vote for, Hillary or the guy who wants segregation?”

He then told his mother Donna that he hated segregation and wished he was white. Tyson is half-black, of Jamaican descent, and half-white. He had been discussing the election with a classmate which prompted his question to his mother.

Soon after, Donna reached out to a friend that was working for Hillary Clinton’s campaign. She wanted to tell her what had happened, share how she was struggling as a parent with how to deal with her son’s fears, and ultimately, motivate her friend and her co-workers working on Hillary’s campaign to continue to fight for kids like Tyson.

Donna recounted to a friend in an email, “I told [Tyson] that good people wouldn’t let [segregation] happen again and we’d fight to make sure it didn’t. And, that he should never want to be something he’s not. He’s beautiful and wonderful being brown/black.”

Donna wasn’t necessarily prepared to have such a discussion with her son, but for the next two weeks, Tyson continued to bring up his fears every evening as he got ready for bed.

“He would ask about segregation, [talk about] wanting to be “white,” and had a genuine concern due to the things being said by Trump. I remember many evenings him lying in bed asking me an entire series of questions. I will never forget it,” Donna told The Next Family.

Donna never imagined that a simple encouraging email to her friend would bring about about a letter from Hillary Clinton, herself, but it did.

At the end of April, Tyson received a letter from Hillary Clinton promising to fight for diverse families like his.

Hillary Clinton begins by saying, “I heard you have been following the presidential election this year, and that you have, unfortunately, had to listen to some of the backwards and hateful language coming from some of my fellow candidates.”

She continued, “I know that their threats can be scary, and I know that sometimes you are afraid to be yourself — but I hope you will stay brave and try not to worry.”

“Let me do the worrying, and I’ll keep fighting as hard as I can for kids like you to have every opportunity to grow up in a country that respects and appreciates you.”

Hillary Clinton ends the letter by reminding Tyson that diversity is what makes America wonderful: “In America, we don’t all look the same, sound the same, worship the same, or love the same — but our differences are what makes us great.”

After reading the letter, Tyson had to take time to absorb it:

“Tyson read it. Paused for a minute, looked at me, and then went outside and played,” said Donna. She added, “He didn’t want to talk about it a lot at the time which was very interesting. But he was absorbing it all and that’s how he handles things at times. But then, when he was ready, he talked about it with his friends and certain family members.”

But the letter didn’t just help Tyson come to terms with his fears. Donna also told us, “I shared it with some friends who, in turn, shared it with their children who had concerns, to calm their fears. Yes, kids were and are scared. And I think this letter impacted them and calmed their fears. It did for Tyson.”

Tyson’s experience and fears are not just limited to him. We’ve seen parents share their children’s fears about this election on social media during this last year. These children are adopted children, children of immigrants, children whose families are Muslim or Jewish or Hispanic. These children are scared by the speeches made by candidate Donald Trump, and this in turn, worries many parents who try to assuage their children’s fears by having discussions that they were never prepared to have.

“I sometimes wonder if Tyson’s story, as well as the story of others, prompted Hillary Clinton’s campaign to create that powerful commercial. Kids are watching. And paying attention. And many are scared,” Donna said.

“[They’re] scared they will be discriminated against, scared their friends or family of friends will have to leave this country because they’re immigrants, scared certain members of their family won’t be able to live with them if Trump is elected, scared for friends who are of different faiths or family units, etc. ”

Here’s the campaign video that Donna referred to:

Thankfully, Tyson can be proud of his mother who is fighting for him and his fears:

“I voted for Hillary Clinton in the election because I choose to accept facts over fear, love over hate, and to be on the right side of history,” said Donna.

Don’t forget tomorrow, November 8th is Election Day. Get out and vote — your family, and all modern families, are counting on you.

*Last name left out to protect the family’s identity.

]]>44001Grandmother Of Mixed Family Says to “Be Proud of Who You Are”http://thenextfamily.com/2016/08/grandmother-of-mixed-family-says-to-be-proud-of-who-you-are/
Wed, 31 Aug 2016 20:00:59 +0000http://thenextfamily.com/?p=43457

By Alex Temblador

In a recent video featured on Mitu, titled “An Ode to Being Blaxican,” a grandmother starts off by saying, “Be proud of who you are. Black, brown, it don’t matter. You are both, and don’t let nobody tell you any different.” It’s not too hard to fall in love with this woman!

The video features a Mexican grandmother who married a black man during a time when doing so received a lot of racist backlash from others who didn’t agree with her having a mixed family.

To those people who were going to show hate against her family, the grandmother had one thing to say: “And they can kiss my ass then.” Right on, abuela!

Today, this grandmother celebrates both racial heritages with her family in different ways such as with food. She makes a large spread that includes fried chicken, nopales, beans, tostadas, and corn bread.

However, she does note that it was hard raising mixing kids. “You try to, you know, show them that they’re no different than anybody else, but you have people that don’t see it like that.”

Her grandson also adds perspective to the life of mixed children: “The hardest part is knowing where to fit in.” He adds, “Coming up black and Mexican, most times, people want to tell you, you know, cause they look at you one way, they want you to be easily identified.”

But theirs is a mixed identity and one that this family remains strong in celebrating.

“To me, mixed kids, they’re beautiful kids,” says the grandmother. Watch the full video below and watch yourself fall in love with this strong matriarch and her poet grandson.

On Saturday, August 27, 2016, the Dodgers are hosting a Mixed Heritage Day and we couldn’t be more excited! With the growth of the multiracial community, representation matters — and it appears that the Dodgers understand that.

Yet, they might have had a bit of a push from one little mixed eight-year-old boy. Last year, Sonia Kang was with her family at a Dodger’s Game when her son noticed a schedule of upcoming games on the jumbo-tron, many of which were cultural nights like “Cuban Night” and “Korean Night.”

Sonia’s son turned to her and asked, “Mommy, what day do kids like me come to Dodger Stadium? Is there a day for us mixed kids coming up?” She was a bit confused, so he clarified, “Well, you’re Black and Mexican, and Daddy is Korean, so is there a special day for kids like me that are mixed?”

There wasn’t… yet.

Her son’s question really impacted Sonia. She shared in a blog on Babble, “When I was growing up, there weren’t many folks that looked like me. While in school and on many forms, government or otherwise, there wasn’t a box for me. Forms that asked me to ‘choose one’ were the norm. If you didn’t fall into any of the categories you would check ‘other.’ I was an ‘other’ and it hurt.”

With that in mind, Sonia contacted the Dodgers and suggested that the MLB team represent families of mixed heritage. Soon after, Sonia learned that the Dodgers were going to host the Mixed Heritage Day.

“From school forms or dolls that look like you to television shows and books with characters that you can relate to, representation matters. It mattered then when I was a kid and now for my children and children like them,” Sonia notes.

As parents, all we want is the best for our children. We want them to excel in any and everything they do. It’s my job as their mother to make sure that happens. I envision certain things for them based on their personalities, athleticism, and talents.

My oldest child is José. He’s 15 years old and has the personality a mother can only dream of. José is mature enough to have made his own plan for himself. Luckily, that coincides with what I envision for him. He plans on wrestling all throughout high school. He’s really good at it. Even though he’s going on his 2nd year, José has far exceeded our expectations. Hopefully his talent and drive will get him a scholarship to Ohio or Penn State, which are the schools of his choice. His plan is to get his degree in engineering. According to him, José wants to make it on the United States Olympic wrestling team and bring home the gold medal. I love the fact that his backup plan is engineering because wrestling is not something you can really make a lifelong career out of. It has to end some day and he needs to have a backup plan.

A few months ago, I asked him why he wanted to go to the Olympics so bad. He said, “Mom, I’m black and Puerto Rican. Society already has me pinned as a failure just by being a minority. I want to prove to the world that not all minorities will be failures. I’m going to make so many people proud of me.” He ended his answer with a huge smile on his face. His answer blew me away. I was on the verge of tears.

I had no idea that he even worried about his mixed race being a possible “hindrance” for his future. You see, the thing is that I never thought I had to talk to my son about race and the issues going on today. Unbeknownst to me, he already knew everything the media was broadcasting; the black lives matter protests, the violence, and the killings of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile at the hands of police officers. Now that he’s older and is going to wrestling practice on his own, I felt like I had to have “The Talk” with him. No, I’m not talking about the birds and the bees (We’ve already had that discussion, by the way). The talk I’m referring to is what he needs to do if he’s ever stopped by a police officer.

Normally, when I attempt to have a serious talk with Jose, he will try to make a joke of it. I think it’s his way of cutting the tension of the conversation. This time, it was different. He hung to my every word like his life depended on it. The problem is that his life does depend on the things I had to say to him.

Once I was done giving him the instructions that might quite possibly save him, he asked me if I was telling this to him because he’s half black. I told him, “No, it’s because you’re human and you deserve a full chance at life like any other man. There are police who are treating people like animals instead of people with rights. Just do as I say so you can come home to me.”

Talking to my son about his safety calmed me down a bit but I still have that nagging fear in the back of my mind that he may actually have to use the advice I gave him some day.

That whole conversation made me realize how mature my son really is. As all mothers do, I saw him as my little baby and I worry how he’ll ever make it in such a violent world. After having such a grown up discussion with him, I now see him as a young man who will go very far in this world despite what society has in store for him. Our world still has a lot of changing to do and I’m so very proud that José has prepared himself to take it on head first. Is the world ready for Jose?

Miriam Genao is a mother of 3 beautiful children and a blogger on Miriam Knows….

Yesterday, June 12, 2016, was Loving Day, or unofficially at least. Loving Day is the unofficial holiday that celebrates the Supreme Court decision on June 12, 1967, Loving v. Virginia, which struck down the interracial marriage bans across the United States.

Loving v. Virginia didn’t just allow for couples of different races to marry, it inadvertently created a new type of family — a colorful family in the U.S. that wasn’t homogeneous in nature. The decision was impacting to many generations and groups throughout the U.S., especially to one Ken Tanabe, a mixed Japanese-Belgian man. He’s working to make the “unofficial” Loving Day an official, recognized holiday by the federal government. There’s a petition going around, asking the federal government to recognize multiracial families across the U.S. with an official Loving Day holiday. Click here to check it out.

The unofficial holiday of Loving Day has sparked the Mixed Remixed Festival in Los Angeles and parties and events in New York City. Other cities host film screenings and similar events.

In honor of Loving Day, we thank the Loving family for their courage to fight for the rights of mixed love and mixed families. Watch a clip below of the upcoming film, Loving v. Virginia that tells the story of the brave couple who changed history.

Alex Temblador is a writer for The Next Family and the founder of Fempotential.com, an inspirational blog for women.

]]>42848Racist Backlash After Old Navy Features Multiracial Familyhttp://thenextfamily.com/2016/05/racist-backlash-old-navy-features-interracial-family/
Tue, 03 May 2016 14:15:23 +0000http://thenextfamily.com/?p=42374Yesterday, Old Navy featured an advertisement on Twitter that offered customers 30% in honor of their “Thank You Event.” However, many customers retweeted and responded to the ad with hateful, racist remarks — because the ad featured a photo of a multiracial family.

Many of the responses were extremely hateful, exhibiting how miscegenation – the dating of persons of different races – is still a subject of controversy among different groups of people.

In response to the racist backlash from some Twitter users, the Old Navy models present in the ad decided to take a stand on social media.

A photo posted by Grace Mahary (@gracemahary) on May 1, 2016 at 3:28pm PD

It was then followed by Twitter users from mixed families who shared their family pictures to take a stand against the miscegenation racism. And just like these users, we commend Old Navy for representing diverse families and not backing down from the “haters.”

Alex Temblador is a writer for The Next Family, who lives in Texas and runs Fempotential.com.

]]>42374I Was Half Lucky: What It’s Like To Give Birth To Twins When Only 1 Is Alivehttp://thenextfamily.com/2016/03/i-was-half-lucky-what-its-like-to-give-birth-to-twins-when-only-1-is-alive/
Tue, 22 Mar 2016 22:30:29 +0000http://thenextfamily.com/?p=41886

My husband followed the sound of my screams. That’s how he found me — by picking up the bread crumbs of profanities I was throwing at doctors and nurses. While he parked the car, I had been put into a scratchy gown and then onto a hospital bed lying on my back while a nurse tried to get my baby’s heart rate with a ridiculous belt contraption, all while experiencing excruciating back labor. He ran to meet me, because, after laboring at home for 16 hours, this baby was coming now. There was no time for vitals. Two pushes later, my water broke, and after two more, I was holding my girl.

I sang to my baby, the same lullaby I’d sung to her and her twin brother nine months before. I wanted the first thing she heard in this world to be sweet because even though she was only a few minutes old, she had already lost so much. Her twin brother died beside her in my 21st week of pregnancy and I was certain she already knew loneliness.

When you are an old lady over 35 and you have tried to get pregnant for four years on your own without luck (There were complications: Cysts! Polyps! Money!), you are likely referred to a specialist who might, as mine did, suggest in vitro fertilization (IVF). I knew it would probably come to this and so I don’t pay much attention to the accompanying slough of statistics and warnings about possibly never getting pregnant (fifty-fifty), getting pregnant with multiples (1 in 4), high chances of miscarriage (increases with age of the mother and with thawing of embryos), or encountering congenital and chromosomal deficiencies (the older the eggs, the greater the chances). I was going to try anyway. These things seem unreal and insignificant when compared to the soaring potential for joy.

Our success was — despite the odds — immediate. After one round of IVF and the transfer of three healthy embryos, we were pregnant with twins. We celebrated our great double fortune shaking with euphoric, nervous laughter.

Because of my age and the two humans I was carrying, I was classified as “high-risk” — a label that I hated. But the upside of being called “high-risk” was getting to peek into their shadowy water world once a week with very fancy equipment — 3-D ultrasounds projected their tiny bodies onto wall-size flat screen TVs. We were handed videos and printed portraits of our babies. As the weeks and months passed, they rooted themselves in our lives.

I knew my twins by heart; I knew their noses, fists, bellies, and chins. They were active, practicing mixed martial arts against my insides. Our collection of in-utero three-dimensional portraits showed us that Baby A had my husband’s nose, and Baby B my high forehead. Week after week, month after month, we were voyeurs — eavesdropping on their chirping heartbeats, a tiny chorus content in their mysterious cavern.

At our 20-week appointment, we were to find out the sexes of our twins. The big reveal was one we had excitedly contemplated from the beginning with names picked out for each potential pairing. But when the doctor entered the room, the silence was too big, and there was not enough eye contact. There was no lilting musicality in his tone — that only came with good news. He told us we had a boy and a girl, and I wept, my face strained with an enormous joy I had never felt.

He told us enthusiastically about Baby A — our girl! Her measurements and vitals and functions were all perfect. Then he took off his glasses, clasped his hands and told us about Baby B — our boy. He explained that his heart wasn’t properly formed. He had a congenital heart defect. He told us he was certain that with further tests, which we would begin that day, we would learn that our Baby B also had extreme chromosomal abnormalities.

We were moved from the ultrasound room into a waiting room with other pregnant women who were sitting smugly in maternal bliss. I was sobbing with my husband’s limp arm trying to pull me close to shield me from both the curious, intrusive glances and the wrecking ball that might swing back. Our families, who were waiting anxiously to find out if we were having boys or girls or both, instead got tearful calls with fragments of information. I was a brew of heart and head, feelings and thoughts and questions: Why? Why? WHY?

In the 21st week of my pregnancy, our boy’s fragile heart fluttered to a stop and his delicate body ceased developing. I thought about how that heartbeat chorus had become a solo. Would our girl miss the harmony? Would she feel lonely? I wondered if she could hear my moans of agony. And what of the love I had for Baby B? A lingering, tangible thread remained tied to my heart on one end and dangled in the void on the other.

In the weeks to come, I entered a bewildering dual reality: I was carrying a healthy baby girl who was growing and thriving while also carrying the calcified remains of her brother. I pushed thoughts of her approaching birth to the back of my brain. I understood the logistics — when my time to deliver came a few months later, I would give birth to both a healthy baby and the remains of her twin. I wasn’t afraid of giving birth, but I was terrified that I would be so trapped by grief over the loss that I would miss out on the joy of holding my daughter in my arms for the first time.

A week after losing Baby B, I was supposed to fly to Seattle from our home in L.A. for my baby shower. It had been planned for months, and canceling or postponing just didn’t feel right. My husband, my life raft, could not travel with me. My heartbroken family understood that I was trudging forward, and I longed to be surrounded by their love and support. Without my asking, my sister changed my gift registry from two of everything to one and she and my mom notified our guests in the simplest of terms that we had lost a baby and wanted only to focus on what we had, not on what we had lost.

With my upcoming shower as a deadline, I gave myself that week to mourn my loss as loudly and dramatically as each passing thought and feeling required. I gave in to my emotions. I may not have been fully ready to accept reality, but I didn’t want to feel this way a day longer than I had to. For one week, I would wallow.

Cry alone if I felt like it. Let myself be held while staring into space. Ignore phone calls. Stay in bed with the blinds closed, not knowing if it was day or night.

At the end of that week, I turned my attention to the healthy baby who needed me to be whole, happy, healthy and walking upright. I was her mom, and she needed me. Moms have feelings, fears, trauma, and all the trappings of life, but they don’t have the luxury of dwelling on them. My daughter needed to experience what bravery and courage felt like in her cells, and this was my first motherly teaching moment.

At my shower, the tulips, cake, and the loving messages written to my baby girl dangling delicately from the chandelier were a pleasant diversion from the feeling that I was attending a funeral at a wedding. There was a hole in my heart that everyone could see. My oldest friends and family telegraphed compassion and solidarity with their eyes when I was able to meet their gazes. My joy was genuine, but my churning emotions made me a liar, looking around for the next subject so I didn’t reveal too much truth. I juggled gifts and emotions, careful not to drop anything too heavy. This day was not mine — it was my daughter’s, and she deserved to be celebrated and honored for her strength.

In July of 2013, the universe that had previously sucker-punched me rewarded me with a fast and drug-free birth, and I arrived at the hospital barely in time to deliver our extraordinary daughter. The wonder of her scrawny, red, wiggling body bouncing and rooting on my chest skin-to-skin eclipsed the tangled mass of afterbirth and placenta and the remains of her twin lying within my periphery, just a few feet away.

My sister — who was also my doula — asked me if I wanted to see the remains of Baby B, and I said no without taking my eyes off my girl. That mass of cells was an old dream to me, one that started out bright then turned dark. This sweet girl in my arms was a miraculous reality and tangible, and I couldn’t wait to find out who she was. I had finished my mourning long ago, and I didn’t dare tear my gaze from this fragile gift that life had placed in my flawed and incapable hands.

Today the agony of that time is just a memory, but one that fuels our anxiousness to have more babies using IVF or whatever means we must to replace the loss with love. I still carry the weight of that loss with me, but it is light compared to the depth of my love for what I have. And my heart, which grew to twice its size to carry enough love for two, didn’t contract; it only continues to expand.

Music is a constant in our house. The Mr. and I met while both temping for a major record label, and our tastes range from avant guard jazz to the Grateful Dead. I’m a big ol’ softie for the kid’s stuff though. My daughter’s bedtime ritual includes five books and five songs that I’ve sung to her from her beginning. There’s a musical theatre standard, a country standard, a couple of old-school Disney classics and a singer-songwriter favorite about the moon that is her number one request.

Like most people, we have our playlists that we love that include all the hits—Baby Beluga, Wheels on the Bus and Five Little Monkeys. We pepper our days with Jazz and classical, and her latest favorite thing to listen to, and I’m not making this up to sound enlightened or obnoxious—a one hour loop of monks chanting Om. It was a one-off, post-yoga thing. She was hooked. I think it’s hilarious.

But there are three albums that have reached platinum status in our house and car. They are old, they are brilliant and they belong in your ears.

Peter, Paul and Mommy—Peter Paul and Mary

This album is my childhood. I wasn’t yet born when it was recorded in 1969, but it was in the record cabinet. Yes, I said records. That’s what people listened to when I was little. Not just audiophiles looking for pure sound; people. All people. Because that’s how music was recorded and manufactured.

Product configuration aside, this album has the definitive arrangements, harmonies, and performances of folk classics like Puff the Magic Dragon, It’s Raining, and Going to the Zoo. When I was a kid, I was transfixed by this live recording. There were kids and their parents singing along with these songs like everyone knew each other and had been singing together their whole lives. How did these kids get so lucky that they got to be on this record? And who were the kids on the cover?

Beyond having family-friendly sing-along songs, this album is a time capsule of folk music during its heyday. 1969 was the summer of love, the year of Woodstock and this genre of music was being celebrated everywhere from New York City west village cafes to parks, sit-ins and living-room or camp-fire hootenannies.

My favorite track is I Have a Song to Sing-O. This is actually a Gilbert and Sullivan duet from The Yeoman of the Guard (written in 1888.) But the nuances and intricacies of the Peter, Paul and Mary arrangement with three part harmonies truly brings this song to life, with the intimacy and liveliness of a King’s court performance, and the plucky guitar transforms the melancholy chord structure to a lively dance. It’s just romantic.

For a real treat, look up some videos online of their live performances of these songs from the ‘60’s.

Really Rosie—Carole King and Maurice Sendak

So what happens when you take books by Maurice Sendak and you put them to music written and performed by Carole King? Magic. Magic is what happens.

You know Maurice from Where the Wild Things Are and you know Carole from Tapestry and legendary music in general. When the two get together it’s chocolate, peanut butter, marshmallows, salted caramel and you know those little buttercrunch things? All that.

The rolling march drum beat at the beginning of this album is all that is needed to quiet my toddler in the car, and it’s been that way for most of her young life.

Released as an album in 1975, it was also a short animated film which played on TV that same year. There’s a narrative that is a little hard to follow by just listening to the songs, but it doesn’t really matter. Each song tells its own story, and has terrific band back-up and harmonies and back-up harmonies sung by Carole’s own kids.

The titular character, Rosie, is sassy, opinionated, a little arrogant, and bossy. She is awesome. The title song sets her up as the big kid I always wanted to be:

I’m Really Rosie, I’m Rosie Real/

You’d better believe me, I’m a great big deal/

Believe me! Believe me!/

I’m a star from afar off the Golden Coast/

Beat that drum, make that toast/

To Rosie the most!

Then there’s the line about how she can tap across the Tappan Zee. What is a Tappan Zee!? How can I get there? I better start tapping! This album was one of the first reasons I knew I had to move to New York City when I grew up. The East coast accents, the song about Avenue P (a real place in Brooklyn!) the Nutshell Kids (who were they, and could I join their gang?) and the illustrations that seemed to move on the page all created a world in my mind where kids were in charge and their lives were a musical.

I bought a couple of the companion books for my daughter, and Alligators Everywhere is our alphabet song. For many months, the letter “N” was my daughter’s favorite: Never Napping.

As a music nerd, I really delight in hearing Carole sing so freely. Her familiar warmth is there, but on songs like The Ballad of Chicken Soup, she lets go wails and screams as she enacts the dramatic demise of our dear friend, Chicken Soup. She’s playful, open and unrefined.

Free to Be…You and Me – Marlo Thomas and Friends

Individuality! Equality! Gender neutrality!

If you’re a child of the 70’s, you might have vague recollections of these concepts. Back then, people had crazy ideals, and they gathered their children around and sang about them.

Marlo Thomas became famous as TV’s That Girl from 1966-1971, the first sitcom with a single, independent woman as the central character. After the series ended, she wrote the book Free to Be…You and Me and recorded the original songs, sketches, spoken word and poetry with a who’s-who cast—Alan Alda, Rosey Grier, Cicely Tyson, Carol Channing, Mel Brooks, Harry Belafonte, Dick Cavett, Shirley Jones, Jack Cassidy and Diana Ross. And it is so much fun.

Sure, it’s dated—with big Up-with-People chorus numbers and ‘70’s-style wide vocal vibrato, and a song about ladies wearing gloves. But all of that becomes charming as you absorb the timeless themes.

Parents are People teaches kids that moms and dads have all kinds of jobs—moms can be ranchers, doctors, cleaners and drive taxis. Daddies can be writers, painters, joke tellers, or play cello. They can be almost anything they want to be; our genders don’t dictate our qualifications.

Another favorite is It’s Alright to Cry sung by Rosey Greer, who played football for the New York Giants and the LA Rams. He also was famously a bodyguard to Bobby Kennedy, and wrestled the gunman to the ground after his assassination. What I’m saying is that he was an anomaly in the 1970’s; a manly specimen of manliness, and here he is singing “It’s alright to feel things/though the feelings may be strange/feelings are such strange things/and they change and change and change.”

I’ve looked, but I can’t find any contemporary albums that hit me in the solar-plexus of feelings, nostalgia and ideals that these old school albums do. I don’t want my kid to have to look for community, acceptance, harmony, and individualism; I want them to just be a part of her daily life. So in revisiting these old albums and ideas, they become new again, and I have a little hope that we’re recycling some good in the world.

The boy is her height, but chubby. He has muddy blond hair, a yellow t-shirt with a green dinosaur, denim shorts and dirty feet from running through the sand. He’s watching some older kids tumble down the slide, all shoes and screams and angled joints.

She sees him from across the playground, and slowly walks his way—he, an oblivious target. As she inches close to him, he senses her and looks up, curious. She sidles closer, slowly extending her hand to his arm. He looks down, then into her eyes do we know each other? He wonders. But he doesn’t pull away.

She gets a little closer, and I notice his parents circling the wagons. What’s happening? Is she going to push him? Pull his hair? I know I must intervene in some way.

“She’s a hugger and a kisser” I say to them. And before I can finish the warning, she has moved in with lips puckered, humming a gentle mmmwah! as her mouth glances off his cheek. He has pulled away just in time, successfully avoiding a kiss from a stranger. The parents laugh it off, and I am relieved that they see no harm in a little affection between toddlers.

******************************

She has finished her snack of corn puffs and orange, and is looking around for some distraction other than the books and toys I have packed for her in the bumblebee backpack. She enjoys watching Papa play tennis for a few minutes, intrigued briefly by the novelty of the thwak! his racket makes every time he lobs the ball across the net.

A seven year old girl with light brown skin like my daughter’s and tight ringlet curls with auburn streaks walks by. She is wearing practice gear, her name “Melissa” spelled out across the back of her nylon shirt. My daughter’s hand shoots up in a wave. “Hi!” she says, and the older girl, surprised, pleasantly replies with her own greeting, then moves on. She has important tennis to play.

A half hour later, Melissa returns. This time, my daughter steps into her path. They could be sisters.

“She likes to hug and kiss other kids. If it makes you uncomfortable, it’s no big deal for you to step away” I suggest, knowing my daughter will be left bewildered.

Instead, the older girl extends a hand. My daughter takes it, and for the next half hour, the two of them parade, hand in hand, without saying a word to each other, up and down the courts. Every adult they pass admires their sweetness. My daughter looks as though she is being led by the Queen of All Kids. She is honored and proud. And I am invisible, walking behind them at a distance, grateful that Melissa is patient, kind and loving.

******************************

It’s snack time. I hold out a baggie of bright orange fish crackers to my daughter, who has already finished her string cheese and applesauce. The fish aren’t her favorite, so she’ll only eat a couple.

But with each one, she looks the fish in the eye, puckers her lips, makes her humming mmmmwah! and kisses its face before popping it into her mouth.

She is only twenty-one months; not even two. No child or baby can pass our cart in the store without her reaching out her hand to wave “hi!” or to put her hand to her mouth to blow a kiss. My daughter has the biggest heart I have ever encountered, and is so open and generous with her affection and kisses, that I know it will eventually become a problem. Even the family dog is a constant recipient of humming hugs and kisses on his head, and he endures like a good-natured big brother.

Lately, I have become more adept at intervening on the playground, and suggesting that she offer “high fives” or “knuckles” to kids who seem wary of her affectionate advances. But to me, the idea of teaching my daughter to keep her love to herself is tantamount to oppression of her sweet spirit.

I know that every child—every person—has and should have the choice to be the recipient of any kind of affection, especially if they didn’t ask for it outright. Which is why I step in, steering her towards respecting these boundaries. But as I do, I know that I am re-shaping her personality in a way. And it marks a passage from one phase to another; from an innocent baby into child—cognizant of the effects of her actions and impulses—that I am not ready for. I want desperately to preserve her innocence.

I believe in letting my child’s personality develop freely, without my tampering or molding it into my idea of what a child should be. I believe in helping to shape the world around her to benefit her spirit, rather than shaping her spirit to fit into the world. But mostly I believe in love. I believe that her heart feels an amorous swelling for others that overwhelms her, and her virtuous impulse is to communicate it. And the worst thing I can imagine is teaching her to ignore her loving impulses.

Of course, it’s inevitable. She will learn that hugging and kissing strangers is not socially acceptable, and I would prefer she learn from me and her father first. We’ll teach her that we love her hugs and kisses, but others may not, and thus protect her from becoming shunned or excluded at a park or playground for crossing a line.

For now, she’s still innocent. She’s too young to understand that our world and people have imaginary lines—across neighborhoods, across race lines, across country borders and around our personal bodies.

I only hope I can help to her to learn how to redirect all this love she feels into something else equally beautiful; art or music or another form of expression that will light the world. I won’t dampen the spark or the flame, I will help it stay ignited, but help to make sure it is contained in a tinderbox, and used only when it’s safe for her, and wanted by others.

Kristen Howerton, Deborah Swisher and I got together with our clans one Sunday and made a little video about the #$%@ that gets said to us every day at the mall, the playground, heck, on our front yards! Being in a transracial family is a very visible way to walk through the world. I look at dumb remarks as a chance to advocate for adoption and to educate people who are usually well-intentioned, but insensitive. This video is in that same spirit. Plus, we had a blast making it. Hope you enjoy it. If you do, please circulate it!

If you want to read more by Jillian Lauren, check out her blog and you can purchase her books on Amazon.